by Aleida March
Somehow I kept on with living and focused on the large and small details that surrounded me and which slowly filled my existence. I gave myself to my children with an overwhelming need to find refuge in their company.
We were a single unit: I was then 33 years old and my children were seven, five, four and two years old. The older ones had started school and the younger ones were in childcare. The mornings began with tears, hurried breakfasts and dropping off the children at their respective places, before I went off to study. This meant that in the midst of the domestic chaos engulfing me, I traveled a road that was not lonely. I had a boisterous home that I did my best to maintain so the children could get through that difficult period less damaged. As César Vallejo says, I lived, “with no news and no green pastures,” “only two old roads that are curved and white/That is where my heart travels.” But time passed.
In 1968 I was in Trinidad, a city in the former province of Las Villas, where I was doing work related to my studies when Fidel unexpectedly sent a message asking to see me. This took me by surprise because I had never imagined that I would have the diary Che had written in Bolivia in my hands in such a short space of time. It had been sent to Cuba in extraordinary circumstances, thanks to the audacity, courage and solidarity of some of our friends.
I was asked to collaborate in the deciphering of Che’s handwriting, which was very difficult to do. I agreed to take on the task, and began working on it with complete dedication, along with Vidalina, Manuel Piñeiro’s secretary. We worked in absolute secrecy. Once again I was touched by Fidel’s delicate gesture toward me. While it was true that Che’s handwriting was sometimes illegible, there were other people who could decipher it without my help. I have always asked myself if Fidel really needed my assistance or if he felt the need for me to be one of the first to read that extraordinary document.
The publication of the diary had a big impact and raised many questions only the passage of time has been able to answer. The entire world was shaken by what was contained in those pages, and Che’s Bolivian Diary became one of the most important documents in the history of our continent, revealing not just the universal impact of its protagonists but of the immense figure of Che himself.
Cuba had the privilege of publishing Che’s diary for the first time in a massive print run that was distributed free in June 1968, less than a year after his assassination. The book was in every Cuban bookstore where there were long lines of people waiting to read it. This was unprecedented in the history of Cuban publishing. We Cubans felt Che was with us again, and we were inspired once more by his incredible courage.
My feelings about this now, after so many years, are very hard to explain, because even though I worked on the transcription of Che’s Bolivian Diary, I have never been able to read it again. I have looked at fragments, checked dates and details, but I have never been able to sit down and reread it. I feel too much pain at those final, lonely moments, when I was not there with him to comfort him. I not only remember the brave man and resolute guerrilla fighter that I always knew. I also think about other aspects of that remarkable human being of so many different dimensions, a man who gave himself completely to his love for humanity, a man who was finally assassinated in a brutal way, without his executioners ever considering the magnitude of what they were doing.
Our children grew up and I finished my university studies, while continuing to play a role in the FMC. After I had graduated, I worked with the Ministry of Education in the preparation of school texts about the history of Latin America, along with a group of researchers from the institute. One of my projects was to put together a historical atlas of Latin America. In that way, I immersed myself in the study of the region, and for some years, up to the 1980s, I worked at the Center for Studies of the Americas (CEA). I focused particularly on Argentina and the labor movement in that country. Obviously, I felt a strong tie to Che’s homeland.
In 1975 I was nominated and later elected as a deputy to the National Assembly of People’s Power. I became the first president of the commission for foreign relations and in that position I had great pleasure in working with Raúl Roa, a close friend of Che’s who, at the time, was vice-president of the National Assembly. He was an extraordinary man, very cultured, tender, loyal and totally committed to the revolution. He had a wonderful, incisive sense of humor that was very Cuban.
During this period, I had the privilege of accompanying Roa on various international tours. He gave brilliant speeches in defense of Cuba’s interests and policies and international political issues that reminded me very much of Che’s approach and style. Everyone who had the opportunity to work with Roa learned a great deal, and we could see the respect he inspired from both friends and enemies. He became known in Cuba as the “Foreign Minister of Dignity.”
I took on other responsibilities in the National Assembly until my term as deputy ended in 1991.
Meanwhile the children became adults and chose their different pathways. I tried to guide them as best I could so they would not feel the absence of their father too badly or feel too burdened by expectations. I kept in mind Che’s comments in his story, “The Stone”:
Our children? I would not want to live through my children. They don’t even know me. I am just a foreign body that occasionally disturbs their peaceful existence, getting between them and their mother.
I imagine my oldest child, and she, now with gray showing in her hair, is saying, “Your father wouldn’t have done this, or that...” Inside myself, the child of my father, I feel a tremendous sense of rebellion. As a son, I would not know whether or not it was true that, as a father, I would not have done such-and-such a thing, or had done something badly. But I, as my son, would feel vexed and betrayed by this memory of I, the father, being rubbed in my face all the time. My son had to become a man, nothing more, not better or worse, just a man. I was grateful to my father for his sweet and un-selfrighteous displays of affection.1
I think of our four children as men and women, nothing more. The oldest, Aleidita, is a pediatrician; the boys, Camilo and Ernesto, are lawyers; and Celia is a veterinarian, specializing in dolphins and seals.
Over the years, I have tried to resist becoming petrified as a statue of the grieving widow. I eventually remarried. Somehow I have found the strength to go on living.
I have been acutely aware of the need to keep Che’s real legacy alive and I discussed this with Fidel. He asked me whether I would consider turning our home into a museum. After reflecting on this, I thought that instead of a museum the house should become a center focusing on the study of Che’s life and legacy. Fidel sent me a message, agreeing to the proposal, suggesting we begin working on it as soon as possible.
I knew the responsibility this entailed. It also meant I would have to move to another house, leaving behind, as Martí put it, the “yoke and star” I had borne for many years. As I packed up my memories again, in preparation for moving house, I was content knowing that the new project would complete something Che had left unfinished.
I was convinced the best thing we as Che’s family could offer the Cuban people and others around the world who admired him was to properly organize his personal archive, his unpublished papers, documents, photos and all the commentaries about him. The Che Guevara Studies Center has since become a place of study and reflection, presenting the enormous body of his creative thought and the example of his life and work.
What better way to get to know Che than to discover him by looking through the book and photo collection that formed his library? You can see how he tried to improve himself as a human being in his writings on culture, philosophy, history, and medicine, and the way in which he approached social projections and clinical investigations on allergies.
The Center’s role in showcasing studies and research on Che’s life and work is something I dreamed about for decades. The Center is also collaborating with Ocean Press and its sister Spanish-language project Ocean Sur in the publication of Che’s compl
ete works, including thematic collections of his writings as well as his famous diaries, from his travels in Latin America as a medical student on a motorcycle through to his last Bolivian Diary.
One of the Center’s priorities has been our community work and cultural activities within the community. These include workshops in computer skills, ceramics, film screenings, lectures, participation in national events and photographic exhibitions.
As part of our goal to demonstrate various aspects of Che’s life, the Center currently has a traveling exhibition called, “Che the photographer.” This has been greatly admired by those who have seen it, discovering an unknown aspect of Che’s talent, especially his aesthetic sense and technical skill. Che enjoyed photography from the time he was an adolescent, and throughout his life his camera became an essential accomplice by his side. In Cuba, and on his many trips through Latin America and the world, he took hundreds of photographs of whatever captured his attention.
These few examples of our work today help show how Che’s story and his example have struck a chord among many people throughout the world in a way he could never have imagined.
During these years, which have been both long and short at the same time, the story and figure of Che Guevara have grown to occupy a prominence worldwide, never before imagined. Finally, I can affirm as his most faithful and loyal admirer that I saw how Che made himself, how he grew spiritually, through his dedication to the just cause of creating a better world.
1. Che’s short story, “The Stone,” is included as an appendix to this book.
10
One day toward the end of 1995, I received the call I had both hoped for and dreaded. I was told that—almost 30 years after his assassination and secret burial—Che’s remains finally might have been located in Bolivia.
Of course, I had known that one day this might happen. Nevertheless, I was in complete shock, my feelings quite contradictory. Like Che, I believed a combatant’s body should remain in the country where he or she had died if they were killed on an internationalist mission.
Che was right about that, but I asked myself if that is what I really wanted. Had I accepted this argument as a defense mechanism to avoid facing something so very painful? In the end, however, the decision wasn’t mine. As soon as our people learned of the possibility of finding Che’s remains, and those of the other compañeros who died in Bolivia, they wanted the search to begin.
It took almost two years of arduous work to find what the Bolivian military had jealously guarded as their “war trophy.” But the dignity of the Bolivian and Cuban peoples was eventually recovered along with that of those “with stars on their foreheads.”
One cold morning on June 28, 1997, the remains of seven fallen compañeros were exhumed from an unmarked grave at Vallegrande, Bolivia. The news of Che’s death had shaken the world in 1967. Now the discovery of the grave that had held his remains for more than 30 years, reignited international interest in his life and legacy. At a time when the world was undergoing many difficult trials, such as the fall of the socialist camp in Europe and with hegemonic neoliberalism reaching into every corner of the globe, it was as though Che had risen again, challenging us to take on new battles. After a thorough process of identification, the remains arrived in Cuba on July 12, 1997, and were received by the heroes’ families and compañeros. My children helped me to have the strength to face the small ossuary that had come from far-off Bolivia. Che had now come to his final resting place in the country he had adopted as his own. At the welcoming ceremony, with a mixture of pride and infinite pain, I heard the voice of my daughter Aliucha speak in the name of the families of the fallen. She put into words what we all felt. Addressing Fidel and all those present, she said:
Dear Commander,
More than 30 years ago our fathers said good-bye to us. They set off to continue the ideas of [Simón] Bolívar and [José] Martí in a continent united and independent. But they never lived to see a triumph.
They were aware that these dreams can only be achieved through immense sacrifice. We children never saw our fathers again. At the time, most of us were quite young. Now as grown men and women we are experiencing, perhaps for the first time, the pain and intense sadness of our loss. We know what happened, how our fathers died, and we suffer as a result.
Today their remains have been returned to us, but they do not return defeated. They return as heroes, eternally young, courageous, strong and daring.
Nobody can take that away from us. They live on, united with their children and their people.
They knew that they would return one day, that our people would welcome them with love and would heal their wounds. They knew that you, Fidel, would continue to be their friend and leader.
That is why we ask you, Commander, to honor us by receiving their remains, the remains of those who are more than just our fathers; they are the children of this land that you so honorably represent. Receive your soldiers, your compañeros, who have returned to their homeland.
We also give you our lives.
Hasta la victoria siempre! [Until victory, always!]
Patria o muerte! [Homeland or death!]
These words, spoken by the eldest of my children, contained the respect and admiration that only a people like the Cubans know how to express. In Havana’s Revolution Plaza, under the gaze of the gigantic statue of José Martí, where three decades earlier Che’s death had been mourned in utter silence, now a sea of people in a never-ending line welcomed back their legendary hero.
The same thing happened in every province the funeral procession traveled through until it finally arrived in Santa Clara, the scene of Che’s most famous battle, where a plaza had been built in his memory.
This time I was not returning to my hometown to meet old friends and remember happy times. I went to say good-bye and to perform a little ritual I felt I owed him. No one else, not even my children, knew what I had decided to do. I had given Che a small black scarf as a keepsake when he left for the Congo. When we met up again in Tanzania, he returned it to me. He mentions this scarf in the short story, “The Stone.” Writing in a sorrowful mood after learning his mother was dying, he ponders his own mortality. Despite his characteristic ironic tone, it is clear how much he cherished that modest scarf:
Ah, the gauze scarf—that was different. She gave it to me in case I injured my arm, in which case it would make an amorous sling. The problem was if I were to crack open my nut. But then there would be a simple solution: it could be wound around my head to tie up my jaw and then I would take it with me to the tomb. Loyal even unto death.1
So late one night, when everyone had left and I was alone with my daughters staring at the small coffin, I asked Aliucha if we could open it. There was something I had to do, I explained. In the end, I could not find the strength to do what I wanted to. So it was my daughter Celia who placed the scarf in the coffin with him, “Loyal even unto death.”
The final ceremony took place in Santa Clara on October 17, 1997. Again, Fidel with incredible strength and composure under the circumstances found the precise words to capture the spirit of that moment. I knew better than anyone the enormous effort this cost him to express his ideas to our people.
Welcome, heroic compañeros of the reinforcement.
The trenches of ideas and justice you defended, along with our people, will never be conquered by the enemy.
Together we will continue fighting for a better world.
Hasta la victoria siempre! [Until victory, always!]2
So that is how our story ends. But the story continues with our four children, the little trocitos3 that we made together, and 10 grandchildren, who I hope will all love and appreciate their grandfather as he really was. My children have followed in their father’s footsteps, volunteering for internationalist assignments in Angola and Nicaragua in the same spirit of solidarity and commitment to the just causes for which their father fought.
I think I can feel satisfied with my life and, when m
y time is up, I will say as Che did, “Think of me once in a while...”4
1. Che’s short story, “The Stone,” is included as an appendix to this book.
2. See Fidel Castro: Che: A Memoir (Ocean Press, 2006).
3. Literally, little pieces.
4. This is how Che signed off a letter to his parents when he left Cuba in 1965 to lead the internationalist mission in the Congo, Africa. See Ernesto Che Guevara, Che Guevara Reader (Ocean Press, 2003).
AFTERWORD
For someone who is not a writer by profession, it is very difficult to correct errors or omissions, which unfortunately remain when one has finished writing a book, especially if you are trying to unravel events from your memory and those events have assumed such historical importance.
On rereading my book, I feel that I have not sufficiently acknowledged many compañeras, women who played a key role in our struggle, with valor, selflessness and devotion. From my personal experience, there were many men and women from my province who acted with extraordinary courage, and I believe they should not be forgotten.
I want to at least mention them in this tribute, paying them the homage they deserve: Margot Machado, Ernestina Mazón, Dolores Rosell Anido, Digna Sires, Carmen Zapateros, Verena Pino, Marta Lugioyo, Teresita Orizondo, Zoraida Lugo, Nena and Clara Gómez Lubián, Luisa Díaz (the mother of Haydee Leal) and Melitina Delgado.
Haydee Leal’s home was one of the places where our compañeros met, including the meetings of the first provincial leadership of the July 26 Movement, and where on various occasions they found refuge. Haydee’s mother, Luisa Díaz, knew the risks she was taking, but she never hesitated and always welcomed us with a warm smile. Time has not erased that smile from my memory.